The Art of Secrets (3 page)

Later that morning,

Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,

welcomes a reporter from the
Chicago Tribune
into her spacious, wood-paneled office.

Fantastic, I am thrilled you're here.

Is your umbrella dripping? Put it—wait, sorry, not on the rug. We got that carpet last year, and I spend half my day protecting it from muddy shoes.

Thank you. Please sit down.

I hope the traffic wasn't awful. The one-way streets in this neighborhood can be a bit of a puzzle. They take some getting used to.

Anyhow, I won't waste your time. Like I told you on the phone, you've got one hell of a story here. This is one of those feel-good stories that don't happen often enough, but people love to read about.

What's happening this month says something important about the school culture here. You should stress that when you write the article. It's no accident this incredible story is unfolding right here at Highsmith. All the time, I tell prospective parents that our curriculum is designed to make ordinary students into extraordinary citizens. Based on what's happening now, we are succeeding! Let me tell you, that truly warms the heart of this seen-it-all-before school administrator. I mean, you have no idea.

In my view, your story—or maybe it's a series of stories—will highlight the remarkable things that are happening. If we can get something on the editorial page, so much the better, because those are the readers with money to spend, am I right?

One of the things you want to stress is that the fundraising has been student driven.
Teens
are leading this effort—young people who make us all hopeful for the future. I'll make sure you get access to them. Here, I'm writing down names for you. Also, you'll want to talk to Jean Delacroix in the Art Department, who was the one who noticed last week that nothing short of a
miracle
may have fallen into our laps.

Naturally I cannot share any particulars about Saba Khan or her time here at Highsmith. The law protects her privacy. You seem like a nice person, and I'm eager to work with you on this project. But I simply cannot discuss any personal details about Saba or her family.

Besides, your paper has already covered that aspect of the story. A little too much, if you'll excuse my opinion. There are children involved. This fire was no accident, I get that. And off the record, I can see that it makes the family look bad. Arson? Whatever the motive, no one wants to be associated with a story like that—including me, to be perfectly honest.

Also, like I'm telling you, an apartment fire is not the story. The real story here is the inspiring
response
to the fire. You want readers to learn about the incredible things taking place in the aftermath of this sad event.

[Standing and moving toward the door.]

All right, then? I'm giving you full access. Feel free to wander around and ask any questions you want about the fundraiser next month. That said, I do ask that you avoid putting anyone in an awkward position. Let's leave Saba out of this. Young people are helpful by nature, and having to say “no” is unpleasant for anybody. I'm sure you understand.

Too bad it's so ugly outside. Will you be sending a photographer? Obviously I'd love for you to get some shots of the campus. In a pinch, I might have something you can use—the lagoon in springtime, maybe, surrounded by the orange day lilies, or . . . no? You're right—you'll get what you need.
No hurry.
The auction's more than a month away. Besides, the campus looks spectacular when it's covered in snow, and we can cross our fingers for that.

Thanks again for your visit. No, thank
you
!

A bit later, during a passing period, the reporter stops

Kendra Spoon, sophomore,

at her locker. On one arm, Kendra balances a tray of sugar cookies decorated with pink icing.

Yeah, that's me. If you can hold on a sec . . . ?

Okay, I'm not sure what to say. I'm more comfortable in a behind-the-scenes, stuffing-envelopes kind of role. I'm not a spokesperson or anything. Maybe you can talk to my brother, Kevin? He's a senior. Seniors should be in the cafeteria by now. Go that way and turn left at the school seal. You'll know it when you see it—the big red H on the floor. To me, it looks a little bit like a body outline at a crime scene.

If I can just say . . . I
like
Saba. No one's got a problem with Saba. I was on the tennis team with her. And so to me . . . I mean, can you imagine losing everything you have? This family needs help. Someone needs to help them. If we can make sure they're better off
after
the fire than before—that's the only way any of this will make sense. We can make this story turn out okay.

Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I gotta run to Spanish. We're having a
fiesta de cumpleaños
for this girl, Kristin. In class, we call her Marta, because that makes perfect sense.

Do you want a cookie?

Minutes later, in a crowded cafeteria that reeks of grease and disinfectant,

Kevin Spoon, senior,

pulls two chairs together so that he may speak at length with the reporter.

No problem, well, thanks for helping us to promote the fundraiser. The auction date will be December fifteenth, right here at school. That's a Saturday. It starts at ten in the morning. Obviously, you want to talk to the art teacher—

Why did I get involved?

Oh man . . . The thing is, my family relocated here in June. We're new to Chicago, but not new to the
situation
of being new. My mom sells air. It's our family joke. Whenever she's long-winded or going on about some crazy thing, my sister or I will whisper: “
Psst
—Mom sells air.”

But she really does! She sells commercial ad spots on the radio. You want thirty seconds of air during the morning rush hour? It will cost you.

My mom is awesome at sales. No joke, Monica Spoon could sell milk to cows. People like her. We've lived all over the country, mostly towns, but Chicago's the big league. The bigger the market, the higher her commission.

Moving to a new place is never easy, but Kendra and I are pros at it by now. When you're new, you join all the teams, and you bake the cookies, and you hustle like crazy. And maybe in this case, you help to organize a benefit for a family of complete strangers. You
want
people to
like
you, you know? That's something my mom always drilled into us.

Besides, my sister has some classes with Saba Khan. They're both on the tennis team. To Kendra, Saba isn't just a name attached to a random tragedy in the newspaper.

I wish I could say the auction was our idea, but it was my mom's. My mom is . . . Put it this way, she's a big dreamer. Freaking huge imagination. Just between you and me, she's got a couple of screenplay drafts in a drawer somewhere, in case the whole “sales thing” doesn't work out for her.

So at breakfast the day after the fire, Kendra was reading one of the newspaper stories about the Khans. She just about spilled her OJ with excitement, and said something like, “Look, even her initials are the same as mine. Saba Khan, Kendra Spoon, just reversed. Doesn't that seem like a sign?”

I said it sounded like a flaky sign to me.

“Good enough,” my mom said. “Flaky signs often guide us in the right direction.”

And seriously, within minutes, the whole thing appeared in my mom's head like a movie trailer, and she was literally
performing
for us while we ate our oatmeal. She was like, “Picture an auction scene, okay, which is always fabulous in a movie. Very suspenseful, right? And everybody is gathered in the school gym, a gigantic crowd, parents, students, teachers—”

I mumbled to Kendra, “Maybe a few rich people, too.”

Mom frowned at me, I guess for interrupting her flow. “Obviously rich people, Kevin, that's the whole flipping point. Right? But the Khans would be sitting in the front row. The spotlight is on them, naturally, because
this is the day that will change their lives forever
.”

Kendra said maybe we could take a dry-erase board from a classroom and set it up near the auctioneer so that someone could write down the sale prices with a gigantic red marker, adding them up in a column that would keep getting longer and longer.

And Mom was like, “Yes, Kendra! Good! Can't you imagine the faces on Saba and her family? Imagine the close-up where you can
totally see
in the eyes of these people how much this money is going to mean for them . . .”

This was so typical of my mom. I mean, like I said, the woman sells air. I assumed this grand inspiration would blow over like all the others. But when we got home from school that night, Mom was still talking her way through the script. The funniest part was that, by then, in her mind,
Kendra and I
were the leads, not the Khans! We would lead the whole thing. Please tell me that's completely normal “mom” behavior.

Just to be clear: My sister may
look
like my mom, but that's where the similarities end. Kendra's not flaky at all. More than anybody I know, Kendra believes in her personal power to improve the world. She's always been that way. I give her credit for taking Mom's lunatic ranting and making it practical and real. And for making
me
believe that we could really do something to help.

Also, for Kendra . . . I mean, there are other motives. It looks like our family will be in Chicago for a while, so Kendra may actually get three years at Highsmith. As sad as it sounds, and my sister will never admit this, Saba's tragedy is Kendra's social opportunity. It's barely November and people know who my sister is . . . and they
like
her, you know? All because of this auction project.

Wait—please don't put that last part in the paper. That sounds cold. Best way to put it is, Kendra and I want to help this family. The whole school does. It's no big mystery, it's not crop circles. It just feels good to help people, right? It's the decent thing to do. That's where we're coming from.

Th
e following day, in the faculty lunchroom, the ham salad of

Wendy Pinch, Department of Physical Education,

sits untouched so that she might get something off her chest, which is sizeable.

Excuse me—if I may say something?

Thirty years, that's how long I've been teaching here. More than your age, some of you. The little turds we deal with now? Twenty-five years ago, I taught their little-turd parents. When I was a student at Highsmith, I sat in desks next to their little-turd grandparents.

In lots of cases, the problem you observe with a student is the same problem I have observed with generations of that family. Behavior problems, laziness, cheating, sexual acting-out—these can be
family traits
, see? And no matter what color their skin, or what religion they claim to profess, rich kids, poor kids, smart kids and the dumb ones, god bless 'em, one thing they have in common is that they're all exactly like their parents. It's the apples-and-trees thing, you got me?

Hell, we see it on report-card nights. That moment when we meet a loco parent and think,
Ah-HA, well THIS explains everything!

And knowing this, see, makes it hard to sit here and listen to you guys still speculating about what may have happened at the Khans' apartment. Who cares
how
it happened? A family lost a home. Can't we leave it at that?

All that matters to me is, Saba Khan's a good kid. Honestly that's why I bawled so hard after the fire. It wasn't like this awful thing happened to some stuck-up little princess. No, it happened to one of the truly
nice
ones. Doesn't seem fair, see? Every time I'm with poor Saba, it's all I can do to stop from hugging the stuffing out of her.

Maybe her situation gets to me because we've spent time together. Two years on my tennis team. Not chatty, but respectful. She works at her game. The kid doesn't even have a racket of her own. Takes one from the bucket in the gym office. Always the same one. Nothing special about the thing, but everyone knows the pink Wilson hybrid goes to Saba.

Plus, her parents never miss a match. Gotta love that support. You see it with these first-generation families.

The Spoon kids are impressive, too. I only met the mother once, at one of the summer registration nights. She sort of marched into the gym—you know the type—straight from work, lipstick and pearls, serious shoes. Pretty conservative, I was guessing, or at least works in that environment. She picked up her kids' schedules like she was doing me a favor. All business, no small talk. Still, she had a spark about her, a
spark
, like she can get things done.

So I'm not surprised that her kids are pretty terrific. They've got that spark, too. They stand out without even trying—blond hair, what they call “all American” looks.Kevin, the senior, to give him credit, the kid's an excellent athlete. He knows how to move the ball down the court. And he's
smart
, see? Some kids, you've got to remind them, every practice, what their strengths and weaknesses are. Steve Davinski, for example. He's a giant, one of my starters. He can practically dunk the ball without lifting his arms. But he can only see what's in front of him; he can only see the
now.

Kevin Spoon, on the other hand—he understands cause and effect. I can count on him to see an opportunity on the court
before the opportunity exists
. Remarkable kid. Face it, not many boys can transfer in senior year and make the varsity team. Coaches spend a couple of seasons building this well-oiled machine. You add a new element like Kevin Spoon and it's a risk. Wild card. But Kevin showed up for conditioning last month, ready to show me what he could do. I found out later he was varsity at the last two schools he attended, too. Four different schools, three varsity teams. See, that's impressive.

That's not just talent, it's determination. Maybe all that moving around has taught him to look way far ahead. He knows that winning one game doesn't really matter. What matters is the game he'll be playing next year. If a kid like Kevin has vision, it can carry him to where he wants to be.

The sister, Kendra, she's on my tennis team. Very polite, friendly, but fierce on the court. Not hot dogs, these Spoons, not needy. They don't need that kind of attention. They just want to get the job done.

These are nice kids, all three of them. That means
good parents.

Talk all you want, but you won't hear me say a word against 'em.